The guy doesn't think much of himself, does he?
I had a quick flash of Grandmama Ida shredding the magazine, burning the pieces, and then hurrying on down to light a candle for the blasphemer.
Goodwin's Wikipedia page portrayed him these days as a has-been, and given that, I had to wonder what had made the Powells choose him to make the documentary that seemed so vital to the enhancement of their public personae.
While Roger was in my chair, I intended to quiz him about the Powells. And everyone knew the best way to get an egomaniac to talk about someone else was to first get him to talk about himself. My mama had taught me that. Mama managed Ruby's Famous Bourbon Chicken, a long-time staple of the Holy Cross neighborhood where I'd grown up. While the chicken was to die for and was the main reason folks flocked to Ruby's from all around NOLA, the other reason was that over the years Mama had always made sure everyone who walked through the door felt like they were going for a dinner of bourbon chicken and fixin's at a friend's place.
She knew all the repeat customers' names and histories, and even if she wasn't working when someone went to Ruby's they always asked after Della. That was why Mama had always done pretty well financially for the manager of a tiny little chicken place in the Ninth Ward—she knew how to engage people, and Ruby knew the value of that kind of employee.
"If you can get folks talking about themselves, you can get 'em talking just 'bout everything else. 'Me, me, me. All about me. You wanna know 'bout them folks? Why sho, I'm gonna fill you in on them, and then I'll tell you some more 'bout me.' It works every lovin' time, my daughter."
It was only one of the hundreds of things I'd learned from Della Hamilton about human nature, and it was one I intended to use on Mr. Hollywood.
When I walked into the employee lounge at seven thirty after having used the employee's locker room to change into my costume, Fabrizio was already waiting at one of the utility tables, his head resting on his hand, a steaming cup in front of him. He'd also already dressed in his work costume.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, snagged one of Valentine's buttery croissants from the warm and fragrant full plate on the counter, and went to sit beside him.
"Sorry I rousted you out so early," I said.
He raised sleepy eyes and blinked. "It was a bit earlier than what I'm used to."
"Thank you for agreeing to come, my sleepy friend," I said. "I wanted to bring you up to date on what I've learned about the Villars."
Fabrizio leaned forward, his pale eyes keen, and I churned out everything I'd picked off the internet the night before.
He was thoughtful. "Is it your considered opinion Percy and Nancy Villars are what they represent themselves to be?"
I lifted one shoulder. "I can only tell you what I learned, but so far I don't have any reason to think they have an agenda other than to find the letter, validate Belle Villars' journal, and write their book."
"I see. Thank you for this," he said.
"Your turn. Did you manage to get over to the gift shop and check into that receipt you came across yesterday?"
"Yes," he said. "I did garner something of the receipt. At first I was discouraged when I learned that the young woman behind the register hadn't been working at the day and time indicated on the receipt. However, she did look up the stock number of the item sold."
"And?"
"I don't know quite how…" His voice trailed off, and his face went from his usual British pallor to a rosy pink.
"What?" I couldn't help smiling. His discomfort was charming.
"The item purchased was uh, er, lady things."
"Lady…? In plain English, please."
He cleared his throat. "I believe the young woman referred to the item as"—he took a deep breath—"tampons," and then buried his face in his hands, showing me the top of his cream-colored turban. I was dying to mention the fact that this particular gift shop check was obviously neither his nor Harry's, but I held my tongue to avoid embarrassing my sensitive, old-fashioned friend any further.
He finally lifted his head and said, "It's a cash receipt as you and I had already determined, and since the clerk wasn't present when the purchase was made, she was unable to enlighten me as to the identity of the purchaser."
"Well, that's a real shame. I'd been hoping we'd learn something, maybe get ourselves a lead or two out of—"
He interrupted me. "We did, my dear. I can't be positive it will turn out to be what you call 'a lead,' but then again…"
"Tell me."
"While the young lady was of no help, the young man stocking shelves overheard my questions and indicated it was he working at that hour, and he remembered the woman. In fact, he said he'd never forget her."
I waited as he played the moment, stretching it for its full dramatic reveal. I'd once heard Fabrizio say, "Old actors never die. They just go into syndication. Once a thespian, always a thespian." Words to live by, I guess.
He continued. "Evidently the guest in question was a stunning woman with bountiful physical attributes that were displayed to their"—he cleared his throat—"fullest advantage in her quite high-riding shorts and revealing tank top."
I looked at him as I digested what he'd said and what it meant. He smiled back at me, his brow creased above his lifted eyebrows, his gaze knowing, and he slowly began to nod his head, encouraging me to make the connection.
"So a curvy woman in short shorts and a tank top bought a"—I cleared my own throat then and spoke quickly over the item that had caused Fabrizio so much consternation—"box of tampons at the gift store." His consternation faded, and his smile broadened as I said slowly, "And that was the receipt we found inside la petite maison."
Fabrizio sat back and folded his arms over his chest, waiting for me to ask the obvious question.
So I did. "Fabrizio, what the heck was Theresa Powell doing inside the house where Elroy Villars was murdered?"
"Well, now," he said, "that is a bit of a head-scratcher, isn't it?"
"Yes. It is." I checked the time. "Oops, have to go. Mr. Hollywood's stopping by the studio for a tattoo this morning." I stood and leaned down to hug him when I remembered. "How did the séance go last night?"
His chin lifted. "Swimmingly, my dear. Although Belle Villars did not make an appearance, it would appear that Jean Lafitte himself came around to chat."
I grinned at him. "No. You didn't!"
"Oh, indeed." He winked. "And it seemed the scoundrel was quite flattered over all the to-do—indicated if he'd known that one piece of parchment belonging to him could have caused this much a stir, he'd have stashed items hither and yon for the enjoyment and edification of all his admirers."
"Wish I'd been there to see it."
"As do I, dear Melanie. As do I. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. Or at the very least, a BAFTA."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mr. Hollywood was right on time at eight thirty a.m., strutting into Dragons and Deities like he had "Stayin' Alive" playing on his Bluetooth earbuds—and when he switched them off and I could hear the music, it was, in fact, the Brothers Gibb warbling their biggest hit ever.
Goodwin was decked out in yet another Miami Vice pastel getup, this time baby blue slacks and a pink jacket.
"Mel!" he said, seeming surprised to see me. "It's you! You're the tattoo lady?" He stuck out his hand. "I'm Roger, remember? From the other night when you went inchworming under that house?" He laughed.
"I remember f'sure. It's good to see you again." I tried to be perky, but my level of enthusiasm wasn't anywhere close to his. "You've decided you want body art?"
He grinned. "Oh yeah, baby. And I know exactly what it is I want." He pulled a paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded and handed it to me.
I stood looking at it, certain there was a frown on my face. "What is it?" I asked.
He seemed surprised. "Well, it's a—" He stopped and glanced down at the paper. "Oh, right. No wonder." He took it out of my hand and turned it. "You were looking at i
t upside down."
I still didn't know what it was. For want of a better description, it looked like a child's cartoon version of a Martian—large domed head with big eyes and multiple arms and legs. "Oh," I said. "You're sure this is what you want?"
He slipped off his jacket. "Absolutely. It's my next project"—then his shirt came off—"and it's going to be massive." He all but threw himself into my chair and pointed to a patch of pale skin on his upper right torso where he'd already shaved. "Right there. I have the exclusive rights to this project, and the tattoo will help me keep focused on it."
"All right, Mr. Goodwin." I got what I needed to transfer the design onto his skin. "You probably want some background flourishes and such, dontcha?"
He nodded. "Yeah, give me the works." He leaned back. "Oh, almost forgot. It's green. Like granny apple green."
"Green," I repeated. "No problem."
I prepped the skin, transferred the design, prepped the skin a second time, switched on the pump, and started.
"Mr. Goodwin, please try to hold still. It'll turn out ever so much better, trust me."
I'd already had to ask the squirming man several times.
Personally I only had one small Tinkerbell tattoo that wasn't very elaborate. When the work had been done, I hadn't considered acquiring it all that uncomfortable. But I was never judgmental of my clients' reactions to the invasive process of having a permanent painting applied to their skin. Some folks handled it without so much as a wince or a flinch, carrying on pleasant conversation while I worked. Others had a heckuva hard time with it, even having to stop and rest in between. Mr. Hollywood's reaction leaned more toward the latter. I was barely into the process, and he was already having trouble, sweating and groaning.
I asked him if he needed to stop and recoup for a few minutes. He raised his eyes to me and replied through gritted teeth. "No. I must keep going. It's for my art." And with that, he turned his head away from me and seemed to be focusing on the painting of a Bela Lugosi-type vampire wearing a tank top that showed he had tattoos covering every inch of exposed flesh. I'd painted it for the salon myself early on in my employment there.
Even as weird as Roger's drawing was, the design was straightforward and pretty basic. It wouldn't take me all that long to get it done. I didn't waste any time broaching the subject I was most interested in talking to Mr. Hollywood about—the Powells.
"So, Mr. Goodwin," I began. "How did you hook up with the Powells? Why did they decide to use your services for their documentary?"
He huffed. "Why wouldn't they want to use me? Woman, I'm famous. I'm Roger Goodwin."
Oh, right. I'd forgotten Mama's golden rule about narcissists. "What I meant to ask was why someone as famous and accomplished as you are would decide to work on the Powells' documentary? I mean after Milky Way Mission and Pharaoh's Ghost? I'm surprised you'd agree to take it."
"I see." His voice sounded more satisfied with the revised question. "Well, this tattoo you're working on?"
I wiped excess ink from the outline of the alien and bent for a closer inspection of the funny-looking little creature. "The tattoo, yes."
"As I told you, it's representative of my new project, my dream project, if you will. The script miraculously came to me, as they used to say in the business, over the transom. Unsolicited. It's a very exciting project. I've been working sort of behind the scenes for a few years now"—Behind the scenes? From what I'd read, he'd been clean off the map—"and I accepted the work from the Powells with the hopes that it would remind the industry moneymen that Roger Goodwin is still around, still has what it takes, and is still bankable."
"Oh," I said.
He went on, Della Hamilton's let's-talk-about-me method working perfectly. "The Powells seem to have access to different avenues of distribution. Archie Powell even mentioned that HBO might be looking at airing the film. If not them, they've also had some interest from the History channel. And once everyone sees that Roger Goodwin is back, creative juices flowing like wine, nobody's gonna tell me no when I take them this one." He dipped his chin down to indicate the tattoo taking shape on his chest.
"Well, I hope it works out for you," I said. "And for the Powells too. Taking possession of the Jean Lafitte letter seems pretty important to them."
"Yes," he said. "It does seem pretty important to them. But their success doesn't make one iota of difference to me or to the success of the documentary. In fact, I have an endgame in mind that will work better if they don't get their paws on the thing."
"How's that?"
He smiled—wily, secretive. "Plot twist." He lifted his free arm and wagged a finger at me. "Spoilers." He paused only long enough to take a breath before, "Someone told me this place is loaded with hidden passages and that you're the go-to gal to talk to about them—that you got chased around behind the walls a while back. That true?"
Was it ever. I'd never forget the terrifying experience fleeing for my life in the pitch-black maze. That had been a little more than a year ago, but the memory was still fresh, and just the thought still made me shiver. "I did get stuck behind the walls once. Yes. Why do you ask?"
"If I could work it out, you know, get permission from the resort manager, I thought it'd be an awesome location to shoot some scenes. Like maybe the Powells could, uh, be looking for the letter of pardon back in there. Doesn't it sound logical that if the letter was moved from where it was supposed to be, it might have been hidden somewhere else? Like maybe in a secret passage?"
I shrugged. "I guess." But I thought that was really reaching. In my mind, if the letter wasn't where it had originally been hidden, someone had just already gotten to it. And why would that someone bother to hide it again?
I worked quietly for a few minutes, beginning to fill in the Martian dude with varying shades of yellow and green.
Not talking about himself for a couple of minutes must have been getting to Goodwin. "You know, one of these days, sometime down the road, I'd like to make a true-crime documentary about the mystery of the Powells."
Mystery? "What mystery?" I lifted my ink gun to avoid ruining the design if what he had to say broke the case wide open and caused me to do something wild and crazy. "The Powells are a mystery?"
"Mmm." He was having an easier time talking now that I'd momentarily quit inking. "As I recall, it happened two or three years ago. It was in all the papers. Archie and Theresa had acquired an 1860 repeating rifle which was documented to have belonged to Crazy Horse." He lowered his voice and spoke more slowly like he was talking to a six-year-old. "Crazy Horse was the Indian chief who massacred Custer and his men at Little Big Horn."
I knew who Crazy Horse was. Anyone who'd ever gone to school in the United States and had to pass social studies in junior high knew who Crazy Horse was, but I bit my tongue and said, "Thanks for explaining."
"This rifle had been missing for decades but suddenly resurfaced. The man who owned it didn't want to sell it. Low and behold, he up and died mysteriously. The widow needed money and sold the rifle to the Powells for what most people thought was a song. Wouldn't that make a good film?"
A mysterious death and the Powells benefited from it?
Actually, Mr. Hollywood—"Yes. It definitely would."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Roger—why wasn't I surprised?—"forgot" to leave a gratuity for the work I'd done. But the tip he'd given me about the Powells and the mystery of the dead rifle owner was generous in its own way, providing a new avenue to travel along in relation to the Powells.
I only had one more appointment for the day, and it was a good thing too. It opened the day up so I could do a little more sneaking around and digging into people's lives. Did it make me less of a busybody because Harry asked me to do it? The scant work schedule was Harry being true to his word about blocking me out and giving me a light work load while I was helping him clear his pseudo-relatives Percy Villars and, by proxy, his sister, Nancy.
First I headed for the employee locker roo
m and changed out of my costume back into my jeans and T-shirt. Then I went upstairs to my, ah yes, dee-luxe suite, and ordered an early lunch from room service. While I was in the back wing, I'd gotten a whiff of Valentine's special soup, and by the time I made it to my room, I could hardly wait to have some.
My lunch of Cajun-style Chicken and Rice Soup arrived not more than fifteen minutes after I ordered it, along with some warm, crusty French bread, honey butter, and a tall, frosty glass of sweet tea.
I opened the French doors to the Juliet balcony and sat down to enjoy the soup, always full of big chunks of chicken, scoops of wild rice, and all the right veggies floating in a spicy tomato broth. Delicious.
While I was at it, I set my laptop to the side and Googled 1860 Crazy Horse rifle, which came up with only sketchy details, little more than Roger Goodwin had given me. It had all taken place in a small town in Montana not far from where the infamous battle had taken place. Further searching through a white pages website and the subsequent nine-dollar ninety-nine-cents fee gave me the name and contact information of the widow who'd sold the rifle to the Powells.
I picked up my cell phone and dialed the number. It went to voice mail. "Hey there, cowhands. You've reached Mabel Ann Gunderson at the Rocking Bar G Guest Ranch. I'm probably out in the south forty right now"—right sounded more like rat—"or out on the trail at a campfire cookout. Just leave a message, and I'll get on back to you soon as I can." Beep.
I left my name and number without mentioning what I wanted to talk to her about.
The soup was all gone, and in lieu of licking the bowl, I used the remaining bread to sop up every last drop.
While I had the laptop running, I went back to Facebook, first to Percy Villars' page, then Elroy's, and finally to the page I'd found for Percy's fiancée, Juliette. I sat several minutes looking at the photos on all their pages. Something just wasn't quite right, and for the life of me, I couldn't put my finger on what it was.
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